


Half-Truism

by Mnemonides



Series: Rise and Fall, Rage and Grace [1]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: At least it would be if those meddling kids and their gorilla hadn't shown up, Competent Villain Porn, Gen, Reaper's a surprisingly good boss, Starting off slow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-16
Updated: 2016-06-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 12:29:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7222363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mnemonides/pseuds/Mnemonides
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The leadership - gormless suits and officers who couldn’t match him - who let him in had made it abundantly clear that Talon was not, in fact, Reaper’s organization to run after his timely, albeit unintentional, assistance on one of their operations and subsequent offer of employment.  Reaper was just another asset, hardly more than a hired gun with a standing contract, held here by benefits that included pay and a nice medical package."</p>
<p>Or, Reaper contemplates what he's doing with Talon and where to go from here.</p>
<p>Sort of an intro-fic to my interpretation of the Overwatch 'verse, if only because I love my dorklord and think he should get more characterization.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Half-Truism

Talon was not Reaper’s organization to run.    
  
Instead, there was a very complex, very competent, series of paramilitary officers that dictated how the organization functioned and carried out its missions.  Someone very intelligent and competent organized the finances and supplied all of the equipment and personnel needed for this… _venture_ of theirs.  He wasn’t there to recruit, had better things to do with his time than train other members, and was _certainly_ too volatile to consider for any sort of commanding position.  Talon was not Reaper’s organization to run.  
  
More than one person scuttled out of his way as he stalked down a hallway, his cloak whispering behind him at the brisk pace he set.  His boots thudded dully on the floor, marking his tempo.  Around him, people’s heads were bent over their work, mindfully cleaning their weapons or writing reports or stocking orders for the quartermaster.  Others typed dutifully away, focused on information analysis or testing new simulations or viruses to take down security systems.  
  
He was in the middle of his circuit of the base.  He’d just finished looking over the supplies - properly stocked.  Enough ammunition and armor for the next few missions - or a siege, should some bumbling governmental idiots stumble across them.  Next was the shooting range, to see if the training programs were functioning and there weren’t any irrevocably dismantled training bots.  Who knew?  Maybe he could shoot a couple, take the edge off.  
  
Then, after that… the infirmary.  He didn’t particularly want to go there, but an overview of the facility was necessary.  If he was to be stationed here for any amount of time, he needed to be sure that they weren’t doing meatball surgery with outdated equipment and sketchy supplies.  He’d seen the damned-ridiculous amount of spending put aside for buying unnecessary arms.  Who thought that these _mooks_ would actually have any reason to use plasma cannons?  _Please._  
  
His eyes caught a glimpse of blue ahead of him.  Speaking of unusual weapons- “Widowmaker,” he growled, his voice even more a gravelly rumble through his mask.  She paused in her walk and looked over her shoulder at him.  “With me.”  
  
“Understood,” she replied, falling into step next to him once he’d strode up to her.  She waited for him to speak up; finally, someone who had half an idea of how to follow orders from the beginning of things.  
  
“We’re being mobilized,” he said after a moment, his hands itching to hook themselves into his belt and rest on the stocks of his shotguns.  “Piece of tech, Overwatch museum in Numbani.”  Even he could hear the venomous tone to his growl.  Widowmaker didn’t so much as bat an eye at the tone of his voice.  “They want it retrieved immediately.”  The annoyance at the short notice from the idiots on high warred with vicious delight at the thought of tarnishing the image of perfection that was cultivated around Overwatch.  
  
“A large group?” she asked, looking sideways at him.  Her accent was thick, but he didn’t mind.  Not so much.  He’d grown up around all _sorts_ of accents.  A thick French accent was hardly worth writing home about.  
  
“No.  The two of us.  Get in, seize the objective, get out.”  He paused, reconsidered.  “And your extraction team,” he added.  “You always have a good exit strategy.”  He wouldn’t have said it aloud, except that he was fairly certain no one had bothered to do so before now and it was important to establish respect and rapport.  Besides, she always _did_ manage to get out of wherever she was - without fail.  
  
She flipped her hair over her shoulder, moving with a liquid grace that would have made another man stare.  He could spot several who _were._   “Understood.  I’ll have them ready in…?”  
  
He took a brief moment to consider.  “Half an hour.”  
  
“Short notice.”  
  
“Can you do it?”  
  
“Yes.  They’ll be ready - as will I.”  She waited for his nod before peeling off in the direction of the hangar.  He’d been there yesterday, looking over the aircraft for use by the Talon agents.  Half an hour - that would be just enough time for her to scramble her team and go over safety checks and refueling.  It would give him time to prepare before heading out - and not just his equipment.  
  
Exactly twenty-eight minutes later he arrived in the hangar.  “Ready to go?” he asked, watching with satisfaction as the techs jumped up to stand a little straighter and looked over at him.  
  
“Ah- yes, sir,” they said, not quite in unison but enough that he grinned behind his mask.  _Sir._   He stalked past them and up the ramp, where Widowmaker was settled on the bench and strapped into the crash webbing already.  While he was hardly worried about what a bit of jostling would do to him - or a full-on crash - he strapped in for appearances’ sake.  
  
Talon had good tech.  It wasn’t Overwatch, for sure - his old job once had the best of the best available thanks to people like Torbjörn, Winston, and… others, even if the UN was a cocked-up mess of bureaucracy and bad decision-making  - but clearly the person in charge of fundraising here was doing their job.    
  
He wondered if they were selling cookies or pizza kits.  
  
He could make guesses as to what the craft and the equipment inside of it had cost.  The nav systems were slick; there were holograms showing weather patterns, their current location, origin and destination points, estimated courses and times of arrival - better suited for a luxury yacht than an operations device.  The onboard computer terminals were set up more like personal computers than something for military operations.  There was even a teleconferencing system set up, as if the extraction crew would need to hold meetings to discuss the minutes of their most recent op.  The medical room, tucked neatly in the center of the ship, was the most sensible and something that even the good doctor would approve of - fully stocked, gleaming sterile stainless steel, with triage stations set up in case of an emergency.  
  
He resisted the urge to sigh, to roll his shoulders restlessly, and instead picked up a datapad from the seat next to him when the whine of the engines warned that they’d be taking off soon.  The takeoff was smooth; the acceleration as they shot forward pressed the straps of his crash webbing into his body armor, spreading the pressure evenly along those plates of metal.  
  
The trip was short - made shorter by being able to look through details on the tablet while in transit.  Shortly after takeoff, he looked across the ship at the sniper.  “What’s your take on it?” he asked her, seeing that she’d been considering her own datapad.  
  
Golden eyes glanced up at him.  “Mmm?”  She looked down at the screen, then sat up straighter.  “I would put down shaped charges, take out a side door or a wall.  The ceiling would be too risky and open, especially when dealing with guards.”  
  
The fingers of his gloves ended in sharp claws.  It was convenient for precision navigating when he had the view on his tablet small, like now, when he looked through the floor plans.  “I’d say the south side,” he mentioned.  “It has enough clearance for this craft.”  
  
She nodded.  “And the shortest travel distance to the objective,” she agreed.  “Did you want to secure it?”  
  
“You’re better-suited to it.  Drop in, grab it, use your grappling hook to get out.  I can cover you if there’s anyone there.”  Not to mention that he didn’t care to be weighed down by having to lug something around of that size and mass.  He wanted to be able to move freely, especially if they did run into opposition.  His strengths laid in mobility and disorientation.  
  
He had to admit - and was glad to do so - that she was easily the best person he’d worked with in years.  Over the interior comm system, a tone chimed, then their arrival was announced.  He glanced out the window at the sweeping buildings, the supposed utopia of Numbani.  How quickly people forgot.  How quickly people became complacent.  
  
He doubled-checked his shotguns before unstrapping himself.  He’d be dropping in first, then Widowmaker would be coming down behind him.  That whole bit where damage just… didn’t take was _never_ going to stop being useful, in much the same way that it would never stop being quietly horrifying.  
  
“Dropping in five,” he said, knowing his voice would be transmitted via the comm installed in his mask.  He had a perfect sense of time as he and Widowmaker moved to the aperture of the craft.  Time to get down to business.  
  


* * *

  
Errors had been made.  
  
Of all the people to run into, the only person worse than Lena and Winston would have been Jack, and his ugly mug had beamed at him from posters and sculptures all over the museum.  He could take bitter satisfaction in having defaced the literal poster boy, but it was a small, cold, petty little thing in comparison to failing at their objective.  
  
It wasn’t just the jarring situation of seeing old faces.  It was the synergy they had as a team, watching each others’ backs and working together seamlessly, covering each other when they were in trouble.  He and Widowmaker were professional, but that was all.  If there was trust, it was a strained thing, small and fraying at the edges.  
  
He hissed curses under his breath, agitated by their failure.  He’d never liked missing an objective, and the pain and hard work of using his wraith form had, ultimately, been for nothing.  Grim satisfaction at the look on Lena and Winston’s faces didn’t salve the ache that clung to his bones.  
  
Widowmaker’s eyes merely followed him as he got up from his seat - he hadn’t cared to bother with the crash webbing this time - and slunk to the medbay.  Waves of nausea and pain washed through him, pounding up against his bones like Reinhardt decided to take a hammer to him.  His head ached, sensitive to the light that needled through his mask and made sparkles dance around the outside of his vision.  It felt like there was something - or a lot of somethings - crawling around under his over-sensitive skin.  Every nerve felt as if it was bared to the elements, as if every patch of skin was rubbed raw under the soft material of his jumpsuit, as if it was the day after another dose of the super soldier serum and his muscles complained in protest.  
  
And, you know, he’d been shot.  That sucked too.  
  
With long practice, he hooked a claw into the latch on a cabinet, flicked it open with an easy motion of his wrist, and pulled out the usual.  He slipped his mask back just enough to pop the pills into his mouth before replacing it, unwilling to show the skin underneath the stylized skull.  He bailed out of the room as quickly as he could.  
  
The rest of the trip back to the base was silent except for the steady hum of the engines and the quietest hint of discussion between the extraction team.  He was glad he’d insisted on having them along - probably the best choice he’d made during the engagement today.  
  
Ugh… what a mess.  Defeated by a woman with a tenuous grip on time, a talking gorilla, and a _child_.  On a scale of one to humiliating, he was thoroughly disgusted with the situation.  He’d been able to distract and disorient the two Overwatch agents well enough, especially with Widowmaker’s covering fire, but he hadn’t expected a child to jump in and become a hero.  Up until then, he had had the stupid monkey and the kid pinned down just fine, keeping them pinned behind cover and disoriented.  Widowmaker would have grabbed the gauntlet, she would have retreated, and he would have covered them as they got the hell out of there.  
  
Damn kid.  
  
Still, his ire eased in stages, equal to the steadily-numbing effects of his usual remedy.  It didn’t help much with the oversensitivity, but at least nothing ached anymore. The op could have been worse.  All Talon assets had been withdrawn before any significant damage could be done, even with the Overwatch agents chasing after them.  They hadn’t gained anything, but neither had they lost anything besides negligible items - ammunition, weaponry…  Some spin doctor could figure out a way to make it seem like a victory.  He didn’t have the patience for that shit anymore.  
  
He bit back a sigh and stood up when they returned to base.  It sucked to move around when he was like this, but there wasn’t time to rest.  He had higher goddamn standards than that.  His work was never really done, and there was never enough time in the day.  He still had to inspect the firing range, after all.  
  
“Welcome back,” people said to both of them, nodding respectfully.  Widowmaker split off from him, off to do… whatever it was that she did when she was off-duty.  He still wasn’t sure.  For his part, he finished his rounds, satisfied himself with the state of the base, jotted down the refuel order and restocking of the medical supplies for the extraction team’s aircraft, and finally got to a point where he could call his work done for the day.  
  
They may not have succeeded in their mission, but there was still something /viscerally satisfying/ in knowing that he was sticking it to Overwatch.  With every mission they carried out, there was more and more of the previous regime’s legacy that they dismantled.  The golden boy that was propped up as their stupid, handsome posterboy would be revealed for the substandard commander that he was.  It wasn’t enough that he was dead.  He wanted him discredited and disowned just as much - if not more - than he had been.  It was only fair, wasn’t it?  Jack had always followed right in his footsteps, inheriting all his hard work.  He’d earned this infamy.  Friends don’t steal away everything that you’ve worked for.  
  
Knowing that the base was in good order was just a part of his efforts to show just how shortsighted and stupid the limpdicked sacks of shit were that had tossed him to the side.  Dismiss him?  Sure.  Fine.  But he’d tear down what he built up in the process, so they couldn’t profit off of the sweat, blood, and tears he’d spent.  
  
Might as well put his back into something else.  
  
The leadership - gormless suits and officers who couldn’t match his hardened eyes - who let him in had made it abundantly clear that Talon was not, in fact, Reaper’s organization to run after his timely, albeit unintentional, assistance on one of their operations and subsequent offer of employment.  Reaper was just another asset, hardly more than a hired gun with a standing contract, held here by benefits that included pay and a nice medical package.  
  
In fact.  
  
In practice, the whole thing had been a blasted _debacle_.  Before he’d muscled his way into the organization, it had been a bloated, disorganized, unresponsive mess of thugs.  It’s not like it was his first time dragging together a rag-tag bunch of misfits and making them play nice, much less actually work together.  
  
Before him, Talon was a joke.  After him, it was a _threat_.  There was nothing on God’s green earth that was going to change that.  Not now, not after he’d sunk his claws into it and wrenched it into becoming a fully-functional fighting force.  He deserved this.  Oh, it was years overdue, but he deserved it, he took it all for himself, and there was nothing that anyone could do about it.  
  
You wouldn’t be able to see the smile from behind the mask, but it was there.  
  
Talon was _his._  
  
The rest of the world could suck it.

**Author's Note:**

>  _One is for envy_  
>  _And one just for spite_  
>  _The cuts in my heart_  
>  _They show in your eyes_  
>  _Don’t make it better_  
>  _The twisting knife_  
>  _Turns all by itself_  
>  _On to someone else_  
>  -"Half-Truism" by the Offspring
> 
> Many thanks to Zuki and Stephline for their encouragement and proofreading! <3


End file.
